


Queen to Queen

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beginnings, Childhood, Female-Centric, First Meetings, Gen, Havens of Sirion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 16:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14241387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: The first meeting between Idril of Gondolin and Elwing of Doriath, Queens.





	Queen to Queen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLionInMyBed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/gifts).



“I will meet her myself, Queen to Queen,” Elwing said to the messenger. “Nurse, will you please to fetch me my white dress and my box of jewellery?” Evranin nodded and hurried away, and Elwing went on, her slender form drawn up straight. “Please convey my greetings to your Queen and my request that we meet in two hours’ time before the city gates.” She turned to another servant who stood by. “Galadon, take the white pavilion and have it set up beside the gates. Furnish it with a single table from the great dining room, along with a dozen chairs, and give orders to the cooks for a simple repast to be prepared, showing forth the best of all our provisioning here. Langel and Rýdhil will be my guards; have them called forth from the barracks. I would have my counsellors too, so please fetch Thárel, Faerdhinen, and Glingaer. They will accompany me.”

Galadon bowed and made his way from the room, giving orders to other servants as he went. The messenger bowed politely. “In two hours’ time, my lady will meet with you,” she said. “Elwing of Doriath, the remnant of Gondolin looks forward to great alliance with their cousins of Sirion. May I be so bold as to ask you, lady, what age you are?”

Elwing bent her head, entirely unchildlike. “I am eleven years old,” she said, “and I have been queen of my people since I was old enough to speak. Young I may be but I know my charge.“ 

"Lady, you do, that much is certain,” the messenger said, smiling, for the ramrod-straight posture and serious tone was unlike that of any child she had ever seen. “It may interest you to know that the child of Idril of Gondolin is Eärendil, and he like you is eleven years old, and he like you looks older than the years of an elven-child would seem to grant, for he is also Half-Elven, born of my lady Idril’s marriage with Tuor, a mortal man.”

A light of interest came into Elwing’s eyes. “In sooth?” she asked. “I am amazed, for never have I heard of any other save my father born of union between mortal and Elfkind. I thought I was alone.” Her solemn face broke into a smile, and she looked more like a child then than she had at any other moment before. “Tell your lady that I would like to meet her Eärendil, if she will bring him.”

“I will,” the messenger said, bowing again. “I go now to my lady, who awaits me.” Elwing acquiesced with a nod of her head, and the messenger departed from the room, as Evranin the nurse returned to it, bearing in her arms a lacy white dress and a large wooden box. Even through the box the messenger could feel the power that lay within.

* * *

Idril could see the young Queen of Sirion waiting anxiously in the pavilion as she and her entourage came down the hill. Elwing, clad in a white dress full of lace that looked a little too big for her, her black hair drawn back severely into one long braid that hung down her back, stood beside a long wooden table, one hand resting on it, the other clutched at her chest, twisting what appeared to be a chain about her neck. 

“What is she wearing, Mother?” Eärendil’s hand lifted to point at Elwing, before he remembered what he’d been reminded not to do, and dropped it. 

Idril looked back at Elwing again, just as light spilled through her fingers. She could not help her sudden breathless gasp as long-lost memories of Tirion and three white, shining jewels bound in a carcanet on Fëanor’s brow came back to her. She had been only a child, and had only seen them once, but it was a sight she had never forgotten. 

“That is the Silmaril of Fëanor,” she declared. “Do you remember the tale of Beren and Lúthien? The Queen of Sirion is Elwing of Doriath, Lúthien’s granddaughter, and she bears the Silmaril.”

As they drew closer, Elwing clearly noticed them, for she stopped fidgeting, letting her hand fall to her side. The Silmaril was hidden under her dress, but gleamed through it nevertheless, lending her eyes brightness, and filling the whole pavilion with light. 

Behind Elwing three Sindar stood waiting, and all about them bustled servants, arranging decorations and placing food on the long table. Idril’s mouth watered at the smells that wafted up, and beside her, Eärendil’s steps got a little quicker. They had been in the wilderness for a long time. 

Behind Idril and Eärendil, Tuor and Voronwë, along with three others, followed quietly. At length they were at the bottom of the hill, just before the gates of the city, and the white pavilion stood before them, with Elwing in all her childish glory standing still and silent, waiting. 

Idril turned to Tuor. “Wait here, all of you,” she said, and hurried forward. She wore little better than rags, but her head was up and her own remaining jewels at her throat, ears, and wrists. 

“Hail, Elwing of Doriath and now of Sirion!” she said in what she knew must be heavily accented Northern Sindarin rather than the dialect of Doriath. No matter, Elwing would understand it well enough. “I am Idril, late of Gondolin.” She held out a hand to Elwing, and there was a breathless pause before Elwing took it, greeting her as one Queen to another.

“Welcome, Idril, to the Havens of Sirion,” she said, meeting her eyes briefly. Then her eyes slid away to Eärendil, several steps behind her, standing still with Tuor’s hand on his shoulder. “Is that your son?” Looking back up at Idril, Elwing took a breath, in an instant becoming a child longing for a playmate, the mantle of cold and remote Queen sliding from her shoulders like a cast-off cloak. 

For a moment then, her smile outshone the Silmaril.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. I invite and appreciate feedback, including:
> 
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End file.
